


Lies and Roller Skates

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:51:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prompt:</b> rollerskates, birthday</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lies and Roller Skates

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgflutegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sgflutegirl).



> Set a few months after the flashback events of _A Very Supernatural Christmas_

If John had to pick a moment when everything started to go to shit, he knew exactly where he would point: an otherwise unassuming Thursday night just a few months after Dean’s thirteenth birthday.

John was in the middle of a hunt—azeman a few counties over—and he’d been out all day questioning witnesses, so he hadn’t had time to go grocery shopping like Dean had asked him to. Sam eyed the pizza he brought home for dinner with the same hostility he’d been showing everything John did lately, but Dean somehow soothed that argument over before it began. Once the boys were sprawled out on the couch, John was able to set himself up at the small table in the corner of the room and start going over his notes.

Dean turned the television on and John relaxed further as he heard the familiar strains of _The Simpsons_ ' theme music. Both boys would be glued to the television for the next half hour at least, which meant he wouldn’t have to worry about Sammy coming over and peeking at the papers he had spread over the desk.

He pored over his notes, marking down attack sites and body dumps on a map of the area and looking for any trace of rhyme or reason to it all. As he worked, he half-listened to his boys: almost obnoxiously loud chewing from Dean and Sammy’s occasional snicker. At eight, he was still missing most of the jokes, but he caught far more than most boys his age would have; sometimes, John was a little frightened of his son’s intelligence.

When Sam was older he’d be able to put that intellect of his to good use. Would probably cut down considerably on the amount of time they spent floundering around in the dark. Hell, John could probably pull the boy over now and Sam’d glance down at the papers and point out the pattern that he knew _had_ to be there.

Running a hand through his hair, John squinted at the map. He traced a line from one red dot to another and then backtracked, pausing on the women’s clinic that wasn’t quite centered in the web of killings.

“Gotcha, you bitch,” he muttered.

“Hey, Dad?” Dean said suddenly.

John tapped the eraser of his pencil against the clinic’s location, wondering how long it would take him to figure out which of the staff was the azeman. If he could narrow the field down to two or three suspects tomorrow, then he and Dean would be able to take this thing out over the weekend.

Dean cleared his throat and then, obviously thinking John hadn’t heard him the first time, called, “Dad?”

“What’s up, kiddo?” John returned noncommittally. There had to be, what, six or seven women working at that clinic tops, right? So all he had to do was head over there and find out if they had any recent hires.

“Um. There’s this … thing. And I, uh. I was thinking maybe it’d be okay to go, if you said it was all right.”

Finally catching the uncharacteristic hesitation in his son’s voice, John put his pencil down and looked up. “Little vague there, son.”

“Right.” Dean blew out a hard breath and his face took on a determined expression that he’d recently acquired. John couldn’t figure out whether to be proud of or worried about it. Then, with a deceptively casual tone, Dean said, “This kid in my class is having a birthday party and she invited me.”

“Dean liiiiikes her,” Sam called out.

Dean flushed to the tips of his ears and muttered, “Do not. Shut up, bitch.”

“Don’t call your brother that,” John murmured, sitting back in his chair and studying his eldest. Dean _did_ look embarrassed, blushing and biting his lower lip, and it was such an odd expression on him that John felt awkward seeing it there.

Sam was right: Dean had his first crush, and it had taken an eight-year-old to point it out to him.

John felt vaguely guilty, like he should have noticed, and he realized with a start that the signs had been there all along, flashing in front of his eyes like napalm and twice as dangerous. The aftershave missing from his kit, later found underneath a pair of discarded, torn jeans. Dean’s hyperawareness whenever John gently flirted with one of their waitresses, like he was studying for a hunt. The way he’d taken to wearing his collar turned up and insisted on gelling his hair before he would leave the motel room.

Apprehension tightened John’s gut. He wasn’t prepared for this, and he sure as hell didn’t want to have the conversation that he was going to have to have with his son. Maybe he could swing by Jim’s and have _him_ give Dean the old birds and the bees crap. It was funny and a little disturbing: Dean knew how to dismantle and clean a gun in under five minutes and he still had no clue about the mechanics of women.

At least, John hoped he didn’t.

“It’s true, though, Dad,” Sam piped up, swinging up and leaning over the back of the couch so that he could see John better. There was a half-eaten slice of pizza dangling from his right hand. “I mean, you should see him. It’s so stupid. He, like, forgets how to talk whenever she’s around.”

“Shut up, dork face.”

“Make me, fart breath.”

“Boys,” John said before Dean could launch himself on top of Sam the way he was obviously planning. Dean immediately sprawled back against the arm of the couch, doing his best to feign indifference. Sam grinned at him and then took another bite of his pizza.

“This girl have a name?” John asked after a moment.

“Shelly Carter,” Sam mumbled around his mouthful.

Dean shot his brother an annoyed glance and then crossed his arms over his chest. “So can I go or not?”

John was tempted to press for more details—wanted to know how far this had gone, for one thing—and then decided to let it go until Sam wasn’t around to needle Dean into a blow up. Looking back down at his notes, he asked, “Where and when?”

“Rollerama. Saturday at three.”

Oh hell. There was no way that they could let the azeman spend another week sucking the life out of innocent people, and John couldn’t pull Dean out of school any more. Not for a while, anyway: the teachers were too suspicious about his son’s ‘delicate health’.

John let out a slow sigh and put his pencil down. “I’m taking you with me to Cleveland this weekend. Need an extra pair of hands.”

Dean fidgeted on the couch, ducking his head down. “Oh, um. That’s okay.”

He turned his back on John, focusing on the TV screen again, but a stiffness in his posture told John that his son wasn’t actually paying any attention to the Simpsons’ antics. He stared at Dean for a moment with his stomach in unhappy knots and then, gradually, noticed that Sam was still looking at him. Was, in fact, glaring.

“Why can’t he go?” Sam demanded.

“Sammy,” Dean warned.

Sam glanced at him, frustration in his eyes and the tightness of his jaw, and then went back to staring at John. “Dean never asks for anything. Why can’t you let him have fun for once, damn it?”

“Sammy,” Dean said again, louder.

“Watch your mouth, Samuel,” John said and then hid a wince. That had come out a little sharper than he’d meant it to, but he couldn’t very well take it back once he’d said it. Someone had to be an adult here, no matter how out of his depth he felt. “Sometimes I need help with my clients,” he continued in a gentler tone. “Having a kid around can soften people up for a—”

“For what, a _sale_?” Sam interrupted. Dean twisted and not so subtly kicked his brother’s leg, but Sam ignored him.

John didn’t have to be a genius to know that he was missing something here. “That’s right,” he agreed cautiously.

“Sam, just _stop_ ,” Dean urged. When Sam frowned over at him, he added, “It’ll probably be lame anyway. I mean, come on: _roller-skating_? That’s for, like, little kids and girls.”

“Then how come you’ve been talking about it all week, huh?” Sam pressed. “Cause it’s so lame?”

Dean cast a nervous glance at John and then looked back down at his hands, a muscle in his cheek jumping.

“Why does he need you anyway? Huh? Why can’t he just leave us alone and take Bobby or Caleb?”

Dean straightened, his eyes snapping up. “Shut up!” he hissed.

The air in the room seemed to thin abruptly, and John’s heart was beating too quickly in his chest. From the way Sam was talking, you’d almost think that he knew. But he couldn’t, could he? Not yet. John had already made that mistake with Dean; he couldn’t fuck up that royally twice in a row.

“No!” Sam shouted. “I’m sick of pretending!” When he spun back toward John, his eyes were hostile, the thin veneer of restraint that had been hiding his anger these last few months stripped away. “You’re not a super hero! You’re just a liar!”

Dean’s jaw dropped for a second and then he sought out John’s gaze, his own eyes wide and panicked. “I didn’t tell him, Dad, I swear to God. He just—he found your journal and I didn’t know what to say.”

John’s chest gave a painful clutch. He was completely unprepared for this: for Dean on the edge of manhood and Sam _knowing_ all at once and he’d never been cut out for this fatherhood thing in the first place. He was too clumsy with the boys—every gesture somehow not good enough, every attempt to connect just pushing them further away. He needed time to think: needed to talk this over with Jim before he fucked up even more. Maybe tabling the entire conversation would be best for now.

Feeling like a coward, John pulled his eyes away from his boys and looked down at the table. Picked up the pencil and pretended to study his notes. Keeping his voice light, he commented, “If you know so much, then you’ll see why I need your brother with me this weekend. What we’re doing is more important than a party.”

There was a moment of silence where John hoped that Sam would see reason _(hadn’t he just been thinking about the boy’s intelligence?)_ and then his youngest exploded, “You mean it’s more important than _Dean_! You don’t care about him, you’re just using him like he’s a—a dog or something. Except he’s better than a dog, isn’t he, cause he can feed himself, and he can work a gun, and he can lie to his dumb kid brother for you—get _off_ me, Dean—”

John looked up in time to see Sam squirm his way free from his brother’s attempt to grapple him and then he was scrambling over the couch and running for the door. “I hate you!” he shouted as he fumbled it open. He looked over his shoulder with furious, tearing eyes and added, “I hope the monsters eat you!”

Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him. Dean jumped off the couch, and hit the ground running. His face was torn between anger and fear, his hands balled into fists. He was reaching for the doorknob when John gathered his scattered wits and barked out, “Dean!”

His eldest son drew to a stop and stood there eyeing the door.

“How long has he known?”

Dean seemed to fold in on himself, his shoulders hunching. “Since Christmas.”

John winced internally. They’d been in Nebraska and he’d spent almost three full days playing cat and mouse with a pack of black dogs. He’d noticed that Sam seemed more moody than usual when he came back, but he’d put it down to the fact that he’d missed Christmas and shrugged it off.

“How much does he know?” he asked. Maybe he could do some damage control.

“Um. Everything, pretty much.”

Damn it. “Does he know about your mother?”

Dean nodded.

John scrubbed a hand across his face and then sighed.

“I’m sorry. I did my best, I kept telling him not to ask so many questions, but he wouldn’t—”

“I’m not angry with you, Dean. Sam’s just … stubborn.” That was one name for it, anyway.

Dean nodded, swallowed, and then said, “He didn’t mean it. What he said. He didn’t.”

John wasn’t so sure of that himself, but Dean seemed to need him to believe that so he nodded back. “I know that, kiddo. He’s just upset. Give him a while to adjust and he’ll be fine.”

“Yessir.”

John hesitated and then started, “About this party—”

“It’s okay,” Dean said instantly. “I don’t care. It’s just some dumb party. Not like I know how to roller-skate anyway. What’s in Cleveland?”

John felt a rush of shamed gratitude at Dean’s words. He gestured his son closer and let Dean look over his shoulder at the notes spread across the table. He could make this up to Dean later: maybe get him that hunting knife he’d been drooling over the last time they’d met up with Caleb. Dean was always easy to settle with, thank God.

Sam was the one who was constantly fighting him, mistrusting every attempt he made to reconcile and turning recalcitrant at the faintest provocation. Dean was the only one who could do anything with him half the time. Hell, the boy was probably out there in the parking lot right now, kicking at stray trash and waiting for Dean to chase after him.

Dean poked his finger at the women’s clinic before John could mention it and John’s chest tightened with a confusing mixture of pride and unworthiness. He studied the edge of his son’s jaw, looking for the trace of shadow that meant Dean would have to start shaving and not finding it. Not yet, anyway.

John would have to call Jim later tonight, maybe give Harvelle a call and talk to that wife of his. Between the two of them, they should be able to help him slap some plaster on the Sam Situation and, hopefully, help him out with the Talk while they were at it. Lord knew John could use all the help he could get.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Both Jim and Ellen were singularly unhelpful with Sam. Jim told John to ‘give him time’ and Ellen asked just whom John thought he’d been fooling in the first place. When it came to Dean, Jim suggested that John sit his son down and explain to him, carefully and calmly, just what changes were in store for him: ‘He already knows what death looks like, John, and he’s killed. I don’t think a few details of _life_ are going to be a problem.’

Ellen just laughed at him.

So John spent Friday not dealing with either issue, stalling and hoping that things would work themselves out. Sam sullenly refused to apologize, and was cold to John when he wasn’t being outright rude, which bothered Dean.

In the four hours after John got back from his foray into the Northside Woman’s Clinic, his sons erupted into shouting three times, and once almost came to blows before he separated them. By Sam’s bedtime, though, Sam was giggling while Dean told him a couple of new knock knock jokes he’d picked up at school. Sam never held any grudges against his brother, and Dean couldn’t seem to stay mad at Sam either. That kind of bond was good to see, would come in handy when they needed to have each other’s backs _(although he wasn’t actually considering taking Sam hunting already, was he?)_.

Then Sam caught sight of John standing in the doorway and his laughter cut off. His face tightened and Dean swiveled his head to glance over one shoulder, eyes apprehensive.

John felt like an intruder—felt like the worst kind of fuck up and had no way to fix it. Maybe he shouldn’t want to fix it. Maybe he could use that current of unease to keep them obedient through the rough years ahead, when a simple act of teenage rebellion might get one or both of them killed.

In the next moment, he was horrified that the thought had even crossed his mind, but he couldn’t take it back. And he didn’t try to force the moment, either: didn’t go to his son’s bedside and offer a joke of his own the way he could have. The way he _would_ have if he weren’t afraid that his effort might be mistaken for weakness: be an excuse for disobedience.

He couldn’t afford any more mistakes like Fort Douglas.

“We need to go over some things, Dean,” he said, keeping his voice toneless. “Leave your brother alone and come out to the living room.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean was already moving, and John gave Sam a curt nod, ignoring the angry glare he received in return, before turning and leading the way down the hall.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the morning, John felt foolish and awkward. He wasn’t sure what point he’d been trying to make last night; didn’t think that setting himself up as distant disciplinarian was worth destroying whatever was left of the relationship he had with his youngest. But the damage had already been done, and Sam avoided his clumsy attempts at conversation over breakfast with inaudible mumbles and the occasional grunt.

When he dropped his son off at the baby sitter’s house, Sam wouldn’t look at him. He only had eyes for his brother.

“Be careful,” Sam said, and then ducked away from John’s attempt to draw him in for a hug.

Dean shrugged, obviously uncomfortable, and fingered the amulet around his neck. “Always am,” he muttered. “Be good for Mrs. Kendle, okay, Sammy?”

Sam nodded and then, when John reached for him again, sprinted for the house. Watching his son’s retreating back, John sighed.

“He’ll be okay,” Dean said quickly.

John smiled at his eldest and dropped a fond hand on his head. “Sure he will, kiddo,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

The lie was thick on his tongue the entire drive to Cleveland.


End file.
